"What are roots doing here?" muttered Jeremy as he gingerly traced the gnarled tendrils threading through the ancient timbers of the bell tower. The roots, like the grasping fingers of some arboreal leviathan, coiled around the keelson and ribband, making a noise like a distant, mournful whisper as they tightened, seemingly drawing strength from the very stones and ironworks that marked this place as sacred to bygone tides. With each resonant toll of the bell above, Jeremy realized the sheer truth: the bell tower was not a sanctuary watching over the village but an ancient vessel, scuppered and forgotten, whose awakening would herald an unfathomable reckoning for humankind.
Saved at 2025-08-10 19:06 UTC
